The Flowers of Evil
by Amelia Bianca Black
Summary: While Boston is facing a copycat killer inspired by one of the most notorious crimes of the 20th century, Jordan has to face her own demons. As always, reviews are much appreciated.
1. The Black Dahlia

**Disclaimer**: I know it and you know it, but let me repeat once more the sad fact that I do not own _Crossing Jordan_.

**Note:** It seems I've been on a writing spree these days, guys. :) I hope this will be a decent crime/mystery. I'm not planning much romance for this one, but I guess there'll be some (with me, there always has to be :)).

Anyway, the story is set a month or so after _Crash_ (but it's not really a sequel to my previous story - _There's No Place Like Home_ _III_).

This is only a short (hey, who'd say I can actually do short ones :)) introductory chapter. Hope you'll like it. Even if you don't, feel free to leave a review!

* * *

"Damn," Jordan muttered as she groped for the phone. It took her some time to get it, but whoever called wasn't a quitter.

"Cavanaugh," she finally said, opening her eyes. The room was still pitch dark, so it had to do something with work, she mused. And she was right.

"Good morning, Doc." Matt Seely snickered on the other side of the line. "We found Madison Moore's body five minutes ago. Dr. Macy was just calling you."

Jordan sat in bed, wide awake.

"Where's the body?" she asked, ignoring Seely's sniggering.

He gave her the address.

"Oh, and Doc," he continued smugly "give Hoyt my best regards, will you? He just won me the office pool."

Jordan hung up without even bothering to retort. That obviously wasn't her phone; nor was this her bed, for that matter. She sighed resignedly, but that sigh was closely followed by a contented one when she felt the bed owner's arms wrapping around her.

"What was that?" Still sleepy Woody nuzzled her neck.

"They found Moore's body," she said grimly. Then she added in a slightly more cheerful tone, "Oh, and I think we just went public."

* * *

An hour later, Jordan ducked under the yellow tape. The sight was gruesome. She'd seen a lot of repulsive things, but this topped them all.

The naked body of a severely beaten young woman was lying on the wet grass. It was a sad, disturbing image, but it would be nothing special for an employee of the ME's office hadn't there been anything else. The body was cut in half and completely drained of blood.

Jordan kneeled beside the remains to estimate at least rigor mortis – she couldn't estimate lividity as there was no blood left in the poor thing's body. The extremely pale Woody was gone to see if he could get anything out of the passerby who had discovered the body since the boy finally seemed to be able to talk. Seely was unusually quiet.

"Ring any bells?" he asked her in a low voice.

She slowly nodded even before she spotted a purplish-black dahlia in the girl's dark hair.

* * *

"Nothing." Nigel sighed.

He had just finished collecting trace evidence. He hadn't actually collected a thing.

"Whoever did this, he was thorough. He washed the body so well that all we have are traces of soap."

"Well," Jordan nodded, "that was to be expected. Everybody who has ever heard of Elizabeth Short knows that the LAPD couldn't find a single piece of solid forensic evidence on her body."

"Yes," Nigel agreed, "the Black Dahlia case ranks up there with Jack the Ripper. Anyway, I'll see what I can do with the soap. I highly doubt it, but it might lead us somewhere."

"You do that," said Jordan, "and I'll wheel her to Autopsy Two and see what she can tell us."

She tried hard not to think of the fact that it probably wouldn't be much more than an extensive list of all kinds of injuries – bruises, lacerations, rope marks, burn marks…

* * *

Woody groaned. Of all the people, it had to be him.

"Cheer up, man!" Seely's tone was sympathetic, but a grin was plastered all over his face. "This is going to be a high profile case, you'll probably get promoted when you solve it."

"Just spare me, Seely, will you?" He wasn't in the mood for Matt's jokes.

Firstly, he had to go to Beacon Hill and talk to Mr. and Mrs. Moore, possibly the richest people in Boston, and tell them that their daughter, whose disappearance had been in all the news for the last three days, was dead. Secondly, he had to find a way to keep reporters at a distance. If they found out about the dahlia in Moore's hair, the madness would ensue – innumerous Confessing Sam's and, in all probability, new copycat murders. Thirdly, he had to figure out how to check only about a few hundreds of flower shops real fast. Keeping all that in mind, he really wasn't in the mood for Matt's jokes.

"Hey," Seely wasn't giving up that easily, "on the bright side, you won't have to come home to a cold bed after all that legwork."

He flashed Woody a thick roll of cash, which he had earned by winning a certain office pool concerning Det. Hoyt and Dr. Cavanaugh.

"You know what, Seely," Hoyt glared at him, "I hope you'll have a great time in the Caribbean. I hear a lot of American tourists have gone missing there lately."


	2. In the Dark

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Crossing Jordan_.

**Note:** This time I'll be short and only thank the people who took time to r&r, which is something I really appreciate. So: **Mexwojo**, **NDRedSoxfan14**, **BugFan4Ever** and **lbcjfan**, thank you, guys! :) And a thank you to **ruth609**, too.

* * *

"Say, luv," Nigel asked casually, "what are you doing tonight?"

Jordan shrugged. "Nothing special. Grab some Chinese, watch a movie."

"Alone?" he asked slowly, looking at her attentively so as not to miss her reaction.

Jordan, who had just finished stitching up Madison Moore, took off her gloves, irritated. This was a hell of a day and she wasn't in the mood for her colleague's usual questions & answers. Especially since she knew exactly where this was going.

"Nigel, if you wanna say something, just say it," she told him, tossing the gloves into the trashcan with a little more force than usually.

Naturally, Nige wasn't in the least bit put off by this obvious sign of her annoyance. There wasn't a thing in the world that he loved more than good, juicy gossip. His friends sometimes thought that his passion for technology stemmed from the fact that, using all those expensive toys, he could find out anything about anyone.

"You know, luv," he started, but somewhat cautiously since he didn't overlook the fact that about half a dozen different scalpels and knives were still within Jordan's reach. And she did have an enormous knowledge of forensics. "The rumor has it that you and our dear Woodrow… well, have proceeded to the next level, so to speak." He grinned at her, eager for her comment on that. He – well, and the rest of the shift, actually – had been suspecting it for a while, but Jordan's answers to everything concerning her love life were more than cloudy. If they came at all, that is. Everybody knew Jordan could be unbearably vague when she wanted to, but they would usually get her to really talk sooner or later. Not this time, though.

Ignoring the glow of curiosity in Nigel's wide open eyes, she said shortly and matter-of-factly:

"I'd say the rumor's right." She tucked a curl behind her ear and turned to leave.

"I thought we were friends." Nigel's voice stopped her. She turned around. That was just what she had expected and she didn't feel like having that conversation right now. But she couldn't just leave now the words had been spoken. She couldn't simply leave them lingering in mid-air.

He gave her a puppy-dog look. The truth was that he was a little hurt by her apparent lack of trust earlier and reluctance to talk now. However, he was aware of the fact that he wasn't on many people's (if anybody's) short list of confidants. After all, breaking to Woody, and consequently to Jordan, that Pollack was going to propose wasn't the biggest trouble his big mouth had gotten himself or another person into. So, first and foremost, Nigel was plain curious. Not that he had played on the friendship card on purpose – he had said that without premeditation. But when Jordan didn't leave, he saw it would serve him well.

"Look, Nige," she started, not sure how to continue. When she had been explaining it to herself, or even to Woody, it sounded logical. Now she felt it had been a really stupid thing to do. Keeping their relationship secret couldn't work for a long time. It was a miracle that it had worked even this long with people like Seely or Nigel, who were always ready to stick their noses in other people's business, around.

"It's been only two weeks. You would have found out eventually. The thing is…," she finally resumed. "… well, the thing is that, keeping my track record in mind,… heck, keeping our track record in mind, we – I didn't want anybody to know for now. I didn't want either of us to be constantly under the microscope at work or be pitied by the entire precinct and the morgue when… if we screwed it up before we'd even begun," her voice was low, thick with emotion. "And the history of our dysfunctional relationship tells us we're bound to do that. Soon."

Tears welled up in both of their eyes. Most people wouldn't believe it, but Nigel was a hopeless romantic.

"Oh, c'mon now, luv," he comforted her, feeling guilty that he'd brought the matter up, "it's not going to happen this time."

Stifling a tear, Jordan smiled insecurely. Each time during those two weeks that she would feel overwhelmed with happiness, finally fully enjoying being Jordan Cavanaugh, loving and being loved back for the first time in her life (as far as Tom Crane was concerned, she'd realized some time ago that she had been madly in love then and that she loved now), that little voice she knew too well would start talking.

"Enjoy it, for it's not gonna last much longer," the voice would say. And she would confidently reply in the same words Nigel just used, "It's not gonna happen this time." But, in fact, she wasn't sure.

Nigel was deeply touched. Seeing Jordan Cavanaugh on the very verge of tears was by no means common. Most people who knew her didn't believe she was actually able to cry.

"You really love him, don't you, luv," he observed softly.

A little, indefinable smile on her lips, she just nodded.

Then the door opened unceremoniously and Nigel grinned, exclaiming:

"Speak of the devil!" He turned to Jordan, whose face had lit up. "I'll wheel her to Crypt, luv. If you need me, I'll be in Trace. I have some unfinished business there… Woodrow." He patted Woody on the back as he was passing by, thinking how happy the detective was to have somebody like Jordan, somebody who truly loved him. That was something Nigel didn't have, he couldn't even see having that anywhere in the reasonably near future, either. They heard him sigh while he was leaving Autopsy Two.

* * *

"Where did _that_ and that devil thing come from?" Woody asked, smiling. "Discussing yours truly with Nigel?" He was curious.

"Well," she smiled back, "that's not very surprising, is it? I mean, keeping in mind what happened this morning. No wonder Mr. Gossip is interested."

"Hey," he teased, "nobody made you answer my landline at 5 am."

Her eyes narrowed in an attempt to a venomous look, but there was a smile on her lips.

"As if I had a choice." She rolled her eyes at him. "You sleep like a rock. Hundreds of smoke alarms wouldn't wake you up. And it's not like I was able to sleep with your snoring-"

"Whoa, Jordan, I do _not_ snore," he protested.

"Besides," she ignored his remark, "why weren't you on your beloved side of the bed?"

"Because, Jordan, you tend to occupy whichever side you like best at the moment," he leaned forward, "and I don't care what side of a bed I'm on as long as you are in that bed," she heard his whisper.

She closed her eyes, expecting a kiss, but all that came was a clang followed by:

"That would be really creepy."

Half-annoyed, half-amused, she asked for explanation.

"Making out in Autopsy," came the reply as Woody was putting a couple of scalpels back onto the table. They had hit the floor when he practically jumped back, having been reminded by Jordan's scrubs where they were.

"Oh, ok, if you're gonna be picky about it," she rolled her eyes again, "then, what about a dinner at my place?" she flashed him a smile.

Reluctantly, he shook his head:

"Not tonight. I'll have to stay at work. For one thing, I still haven't talked to the Moores." Seeing the question in her eyes, he explained: "They're coming back from California this evening. Some private eye contacted them yesterday, saying that Madison was spotted in Santa Monica. They rushed there."

She nodded solemnly. It wasn't fair. Madison Moore was young, beautiful, rich. And, maybe most importantly, she was incredibly talented – she was one of the most brilliant young scientists in the country. It seemed like she had a wonderful life ahead of her. Yet she died in such a heinous way. Jordan was angry. Whoever did it was a monster and she wanted his head.

"I'm still totally in the dark," Woody continued. "I've been asking around a little about that flower and it seems that flower shops don't really sell that kind of stuff."

"That's hardly surprising," Jordan seized the opportunity when he made what seemed like a dramatic pause. "I mean, who would want such a thing for their Valentine's Day or wedding. Not even for the funeral," she exhausted her list of the occasions when she thought giving or receiving flowers was acceptable. She didn't really care about cut, lifeless flowers. If she had to, she'd choose pot-plants over them. Not that she really cared about pot-plants, either.

"Yeah, well." Woody smiled at her, wondering for a nanosecond how he could have been so stupid as to send her flowers before her surgery. That had been a disastrous decision; he should have known better. "You would be surprised. Actually, there are people who are profoundly unhappy with the fact that it's still impossible to grow completely black dahlias."

Jordan shot him an incredulous look, opening her mouth to express her opinion on those lunatics, but then she just sighed. She should have known better after all these years in the ME's office. There were a lot of weird, to put it mildly, people out there.

"So they still have to be satisfied with purplish-black ones," Woody resumed, concluding that she was not going to talk after all. "Like the one we found in Moore's hair, but not exactly. A couple of people I talked to were thrilled to see such a dark one. So, I think our guy knows what he's doing. Maybe he's a botanist, a gardener, a florist." He paused. "But it still doesn't help us." He sighed.

Jordan nodded. "There are thousands of people in Boston who'd fit into one or all of those categories." She bit her lip; it wasn't her intention to make it sound so hopeless. Woody was already having a hard time.

"Don't sweat it." He waved his hand, noticing her gesture. "I've already reached that conclusion myself," he bravely made an attempt to smile. "Anyway, do you have anything?"

It was her turn to sigh.

"The TOD is around 4 am. COD - hemorrhage and shock due to concussion of the brain and lacerations of the face." Seeing the question written over his face, she nodded, "Yes, those lacerations the sick son of a bitch made from the corners of her mouth to her cheeks." The very thought of it made her sick. And pissed off. Nobody had the right to do something like that to another human being. She wanted this guy. Badly.

"Nigel has found us Elizabeth Short's autopsy report," she talked again after a couple of seconds. "There are many similarities. For example, neither of the girls was raped. But there are some discrepancies, too. Beth didn't have any burn marks, while Madison has some. Then," she felt sick again, "there was grass in Beth's vagina and some granular substance, mostly feces, in her abdomen. We haven't found either, thank God, if I may say so."

She was quiet for some time. When she spoke again, her voice was low, but trembling with anger:

"Woody, I really want this guy." She was shaken up more than usually.

"Me too," he retorted grimly.

* * *

The Moore's mansion at Beacon Hill made Woody feel uncomfortable. Amidst that entire splendor, he again felt like a chubby, stammering kid from Kewaunee, Wisconsin. Sitting onto a chair which probably cost more than he'd ever earn, he decisively shook those thoughts off. It wasn't the time to think about his insecurities. It was the time to focus. This conversation could be the first signpost to whoever killed Madison Moore. He doubted it, but still.

"I know this is tough, Mr. Moore," he addressed the man opposite him. Mrs. Moore was obviously not able to talk. She seemed completely lost in thought, staring at one point ever since Woody had come in, and probably long before that. At the same time, she was tearing a lace handkerchief into pieces, completely unaware of doing so. Woody was positive that she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and he fully understood why.

"Do you know anybody who would want to hurt Madison?" he continued.

Mr. Moore, a lanky, charismatic man in his sixties, shook his head even before the detective finished his question.

"Our daughter is… was-" His voice broke. It took him some time to regain his composure. "Madison was a very private person. She only had a couple of childhood friends. All girls. She was engaged to her job, she practically lived for Petri dishes and all those impossible-to-remember-their-names funny substances. There was a boy, though. A year or so ago. Millie would know better." He looked at his wife gently, but she didn't give any signs of being aware that there was anybody except her in the room. "It didn't work out. But he's a good kid. Simon, Simon Willoughby. His father is my business partner. He's known Madison since she was born. He's some four or five years older. As I told you, detective, Madison was a very private person. She didn't go out much. Her mother would manage to talk her into going to one of those cocktail parties every month or two. Millie has a scrapbook somewhere with all Maddie's appearances in social column," he smiled. "She thought that was the way to persuade her to go out more – showing her how beautiful she looked in the newspaper. Poor Millie," he sighed, "she was still hoping to have a bunch of grandchildren one day. We both were."

After a couple of more questions, Woody said goodbye. Outside the house, he sighed in frustration. He wasn't a step closer to the killer. He was still groping in the dark.


	3. Here It Goes Again

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Crossing Jordan_.

**Note:** Ok, this was intended to be much shorter - three or four paragraphs, and to serve as an introduction to the 3rd chapter. However, it somehow grew to be much longer and eventually became the 3rd chapter itself. :)) I don't know how things like that always happen to me... Anyway, although it's (almost) pure romance, it's not completely useless to the plot as it foreshadows some events.

Thanks to all the readers, but - as always - special thanks to the reviewers. So, thank you: **BugFan4Ever**, **Mexwojo** and **lbcjfan**! :)

* * *

Jordan closed her eyes, relishing the smell. It smelled really good. Way more than good. Fan-freakin'-tastic, in fact. She smiled somewhat smugly. She had done it! She had managed to cook a decent meal. Wait a minute, not a decent, but an absolutely fabulous meal. She congratulated herself. To tell the truth, those dangerously good-smelling lasagne al forno weren't quite finished, but they would be soon. She checked the timer – only eleven more minutes.

Still smiling, immensely proud of herself, she proceeded to the bathroom. Taking the towel off her hair and tossing it carelessly onto the hamper, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. She grinned as she was distributing a small amount of styling mousse all over her hair, which was dark and curly again. "This _does_ look good," she thought, satisfied. Woody was bound to like it. That was her surprise number one. They had been working different shifts for the last couple of days, so he still hadn't seen her old-new hairstyle.

Her surprise number two, naturally, was the dinner. Well, it wasn't really much of a surprise since he'd kind of figured out she would be cooking when she had refused the usual takeout and asked him to bring just a bottle of wine. But he still didn't know what exactly she'd be preparing. He only knew it'd be Italian. And, of course, the fact that she had actually made a meal which wasn't consisting only of lettuce and cheese was going to be one big surprise in itself.

The surprise number three was currently lying on her bed. It was a little something from _Agent Provocateur_. She couldn't help giggling at the name.

She only hoped that those little surprises would make him feel better. Things between them were fantastic, better than Jordan ever hoped they could be. It seemed that their relationship was a blend of just right amounts of friendship and passion, of compromises and those little quarrels that only make the heart grow fonder. Things at work, on the other hand, weren't so great. For Woody, that is. More than two months elapsed since they had found Madison Moore's body. The trail had long gone cold. The ex-boyfriend had a rock solid alibi. The only thing Nigel had discovered about the soap was that it was homemade and that it contained dahlia extract. There was simply nothing that police could do. But that fact didn't stop Madison's father from calling his friends in high places on a daily basis. They were pressing Woody's Lieutenant hard to do something about it and he was pressuring the detective in return. Woody was having a really hard time and went around looking worried most of the time.

The doorbell took her by surprise. Tightening her robe, she opened the door. There stood Woody, holding a bottle.

"Hey, you're early," she said, giving him a quick kiss.

"Yeah, well..." He entered the apartment and proceeded rather quickly to the kitchenette. "There's been a blackout in my neighborhood,… mmmm, something smells really good in here… yeah, so I figured out I may as well come now. Hope you don't mind," he said putting the wine in the fridge and stashing a paper bag, which he had been trying to keep out of Jordan's sight, behind a carton of milk. Just in time, as it seemed, because she appeared in the kitchen.

"No, no, of course not." She smiled. "It's just… I didn't have the time to get dressed."

"Even better," he said, pulling her in for a kiss. He ran his fingers through her hair and twirled a still damp curl around his index finger: "I like your hair."

She only grinned in reply. He released her curl and traced his finger across her cheek before claiming her lips one more time. Resting his forehead against hers, he whispered, "Why don't we make smart use of this extra time we've got?"

She kissed him lightly, but freed herself from his embrace.

"Because this isn't really extra time," she said, glancing back at him as she turned towards the cupboard. "I have to finish the dinner _and_ set the table," she continued while opening the cupboard to get some plates.

"I can help you with the table," he threw in, taking the plates from her.

"_And_ get dressed," her list wasn't over yet.

"As I said," he grinned, "you don't have to. Not because of me. As a matter of fact, I'd rather you undr-"

"But I wouldn't," she interrupted. "For now, at least," she flashed him a small lopsided smile. "You see, I had this little surprise," she added significantly.

"Oh, yeah?" His eyebrows raised and his grin became even bigger. "What is it?"

"Now, now," she teased, bringing the cutlery, "if I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise any more, wouldn't it?"

"Well, you've kinda already spilt the beans," he retorted, putting the forks to their places, "so you may as well tell me."

"Or not," she wasn't convinced. "After the dinner," she concluded mercilessly.

"Oh, c'mon, Jordan," he was persistent. "Can't I just sneak a peak?"

She shook her head playfully.

"Oh, but it's not fair," he still wasn't giving up. "Now you've already mentioned it, I can't wait all the way to dessert to see it. C'mon, you know me, I won't let it go till you show me," he said. "Just a sneak preview, I promise," he added.

She sighed in mock-irritation and rolled her eyes as she took his hand. She led him to her bedroom and opened the door, letting him see what was on the bed. He just stood there and grinned, imagining those… thingies… from _Agent Provocateur_ hugging her curves. She waved her hand in front of his face.

"Earth to Hoyt, Earth to Hoyt," she said teasingly. "I believe that was your sneak preview," she nodded, taking his hand to lead him out of the room.

"You know what?" he replied, his arms clasping around her. "I believe I've changed my mind."

Not knowing quite how or when it happened, Jordan found herself on the bed, next to her new lingerie, but she was far from protesting it.

"We… can… make a break… for dinner… later," he managed to utter between kisses.

"You know," she succeeded in gasping the words out when his lips moved on to her collarbone, "I think you're totally right."

He was undoing her robe in order to enable his lips to investigate every single micrometer of her body when the sharp, continuous sound startled them both. The cop in him woke up and he rushed to see what was going on. Tightening her robe, she closely followed.

Jordan's hand flew to her forehead after her sudden realization. "But how?" she wondered. "The timer never beeped." She ran to the window and flung it open. During the same time, Woody turned the oven off, took at one point very promising and now completely burnt lasagne out and threw them into the trashcan together with the baking dish. Fortunately, there wasn't much smoke, so the alarm went silent shortly.

"We're lucky that at least your smoke alarm works properly." Smiling, he turned to Jordan, who was still beside the window. "Your timer is broken. Obviously," he pointed at the flashing four zeros. "God knows when the countdown stopped."

She was still silent. She looked pretty shaken up, her face drained of color.

"Jordan?" He approached her, worried.

"It seems I can't do anything right," her voice was filled with unshed tears.

She was in his arms before even knowing it. "Jordan," he gently whispered. "It's not your fault, baby. How could you have known?" he was confused. He felt there was something else here, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

"I'm not her. I'm not her. I'm not her. I'm not her. I'm not her," was the refrain playing in Jordan's head, always louder and louder, faster and faster until she finally felt her brain would burst, her head explode, if she didn't say it out loud.

The words frightened him although they came in a low and seemingly decisive tone. Possibly, they frightened him even more because they were spoken in that fashion. It sounded as though they had been uttered many a time, practiced over and over again. He knew too well that there was only one 'her' in Jordan's life. He thought that Jordan had surpassed her obsession and her fears concerning her mother and the heritage she might have left her. But now he wasn't sure. Would she ever be able to escape her? Would they ever be able to escape the shadows of Emily's illness, of Emily and Max's turbulent and unhappy marital life, which left the only woman he ever loved convinced that it wasn't safe to love anybody and kept her running away and playing hide-and-seek with him? And this time it seemed they were doing so well. He wasn't going to let a woman who was dead for almost thirty years ruin Jordan's future, his future, their future.

"Of course you're not her, Jordan." He was rubbing her back tenderly. "Of course you're not her. You're Jordan," he whispered soothingly, placing light kisses onto her hair.

She seemed to have regained her composure. Making an attempt to smile and stifling a tear at the same time, she said in what she hoped to have been a lighthearted tone, "Sorry, I thought I was so over it. Old habits die hard, I guess."

He wasn't very satisfied with what she had said. He had a bad feeling that Jordan was about to hide again. To build up her wall.

"You know you can tell me everything, don't you?" He lifted her chin, forcing her to look him in the eyes.

She nodded, wondering why he loved her - cuckoo, messed up, and being grateful to God or devil, whoever made it happen.

"It's nothing, I promise," she said. "It's just… well, my mother had a penchant for leaving all kinds of electric appliances on. There were more than a few occasions when it became, uh, considerably worse than this."

"You know this wasn't your fault." He pulled her even closer in an impulsive attempt to shield her from all bad memories. For some time they just stood like that. He felt her tension slipping away and he thanked God that, of all people, he was the one whom she allowed to hold her a little tighter. "As a matter of fact, if this was anybody's fault, than it would be mine," he said, trying to lighten things up.

She opened her mouth to protest, but then she changed her mind. Stepping back, her eyes narrowing, she said:

"Why, of course it was your fault. But it's your loss, too." She shrugged. "Hadn't you been all over me, you would just be eating the best lasagne in your greasy-donuts-and-mushu-leftovers life," she tapped her finger against his chest, smiling.

"Oh yeah?" He smiled back. "And does my 'being all over you,' as you so nicely put it, have - by any chance - anything to do with the fact that you're absolutely gorgeous?" He nibbled her lip. "Or with that bad-girls lingerie you showed me although you're a doctor and know full well it could have given me a heart attack?" His lips brushed hers.

"Oh yeah, about that lingerie…," she started, giving him a small half-apologetic smile, "How 'bout it waits for another occasion? Right now I'm only in the mood for snuggling on the couch with something from Yang-Chow's and watching a movie."

"I couldn't agree with you more," He caressed her cheek and kissed her on the forehead.

He let her go and she picked up the receiver to call the Chinese place they loved.

"Wait a minute, Jordan," he suddenly said. "I believe," he continued, entering the kitchen and retrieving something from the fridge, "you don't have to call Yang-Chi's," he said showing her a white paper bag with red Chinese letters.

She was puzzled, but only for half a second.

"Wow, look who's got trust issues now!" She was about eighty percent annoyed and twenty percent amused. "So, you didn't believe I could cook a proper dinner?" she deliberately sounded more hurt than she really was. Her track record in mind, bringing a spare dinner was probably a clever idea.

"I admit I had my doubts and I'm sorry," he replied. "Scouts honor, it won't happen again!" he raised his right hand.

"What are you sorry for?" She took the bag from him. "It's not like I've managed to cook it. I mean, unless you count burning into cooking."

"You would have cooked it hadn't it been for your timer. And I must tell you it smelled mighty good," he said as she was examining the contents of the bag. "Which is a good thing since in my town we don't marry girls who don't know how to cook."

"Okay," she raised her eyes from very inviting spring rolls, "I'll pretend I didn't hear the M-word if you let me pick the movie."

"But Jordan…" He wasn't exactly overjoyed. "You picked the last three movies we watched together," he protested, but she was already rummaging through DVDs.

"Well, this time blame it on your big mouth." She flashed him a case, a look at which made him groan. "Hope you brought a supply of Kleenex."

* * *

Smiling, Jordan tenderly looked down at her lap, or rather at the person who rested his head there. She ran her fingers through his hair again. His eyes were closed and breathing deep and even. He didn't make it even to the half of the movie this time. She caressed his face. Love might have been more than a little bit hard on her, but it seemed to be ready to make it all up to her now.

When a minute later his phone started ringing, she groaned. It was the time for mission impossible: waking Woody up. After her gentle and then not so gentle nudges failed miserably, she decided that desperate times required desperate measures. She pinched his arm so hard that he jumped immediately.

"What-" He looked around, disoriented.

"Sorry," she murmured and gave him a quick kiss as an apology, handing him the phone.

"This is Hoyt," he said drowsily. When twenty seconds later he finished the conversation with: "I'll be right there.", he was wide awake.

"There's been another one," he turned to Jordan just as her cell started to ring. He didn't need to be more specific for she understood perfectly from his tone what had happened: another dead girl with a dark dahlia in her hair.


	4. At a Standstill

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Crossing Jordan_.

**Note:** Thank you, **BugFan4Ever**, **Mexwojo**, **lbcjfan** and **buddies**. I'm terribly glad you liked the fluff! :) This one isn't very fluffy, though.

* * *

"This guy is one sick puppy," Nigel muttered indignantly. He had just finished taking photos of the victim, so he headed towards the computer to do a facial reconstruction. The lacerations on this woman's face were significantly more serious than on the previous one's. They still went from the corners of her mouth, but were deeper and longer. She was beaten more brutally, too. All that in mind, a computer reconstruction wouldn't help only the police, but the next of kin, as well. They wouldn't have to see the heinous image that bothered even the hardened employees of the BPD and the ME's Office.

"And that's a major understatement," Jordan added wearily. That was going to be one long night, but she had no intention of leaving the autopsy for the next morning. Every minute could be important. She didn't want another body mutilated in the same way on her autopsy table. Ok, they hadn't found anything on Moore's body, but they would find something this time. She kept encouraging herself by repeating her old mantra: "All the answers are on the body." The good old forensic science couldn't let her down. She took a deep breath as she made the first cut of the Y incision with the blunt side of a scalpel.

Some time later, Woody entered Autopsy, a manila folder in his hand. Trying not to look at the table, he went past it and joined Nigel.

"I've got three missing persons reports," he addressed the Brit. "You got anything I could compare them with?"

"Just a sec." Nigel's finger hovered above the keyboard for a moment. "Here you go."

Woody flipped through his folder, comparing photos from the reports with the image on the screen.

"Julie Cohen," he said, "thirty-five, married, address in northern suburbs. Went missing three days ago."

"Oh God." Jordan's voice was faint. The men hurried to her. She looked as if she was going to be sick. She felt the same way.

"Jordan, you okay?" Woody grabbed her arm.

"Yeah, luv, you look a bit greenish," Nigel added.

She shook her head dismissively.

"It's nothing, I just found…" She looked down at her arm, "That hurts," she said matter-of-factly.

"Sorry." Woody smiled sheepishly and let her go.

"So, I found," she resumed solemnly, "what was missing the last time. Unfortunately, it's here now."

Nigel was shaken up.

"You mean the grass and the feces?" he asked quietly, looking for confirmation at the autopsy table.

Jordan nodded. Now Woody looked as if he was going to be sick. Nigel's eyes were downcast in disbelief and disgust. Like the murder itself wasn't enough. This was just… plain mean. Evil. The killer was using the body as an outlet for his rage. He was dishonoring it.

Jordan spoke first, "So, the son of a bitch is getting angrier."

* * *

"That can't be true." Leonard Cohen sobbed. "Nobody would want to hurt Julie. Why would anyone want to hurt Julie?" He lifted his red rimmed eyes to Woody, desperately looking for an explanation.

"We're doing our best, Mr. Cohen," was the best the detective was able to offer, however. He doubted there was a rational motive. If there ever was such a thing, that is. He also failed to grasp the connection between the two victims. They were both in their thirties and had dark, wavy hair. They were pretty, although Moore wasn't exactly the kind of a girl who cared much about her appearance. The similarities stopped there. While Madison Moore came from a privileged background and was a brilliant scientist, Julie Cohen was a housewife from the middle class, not even upper-middle, and she had barely finished her high school.

He turned around to look at the pictures, which filled the Cohens' living room.

"You have any children?" he noticed that a lot of photographs showed Julie with kids.

"No." Leonard shook his head. "Julie… well, Julie couldn't have children. And she loved them so much. She was involved in a number of charities. She was carrying them toys, books, clothes, sweets,… That," he motioned to the picture Woody was holding, in which Mrs. Cohen was surrounded by a great number of kids and an even greater number of cakes, "was taken a couple of days ago. One of the children's homes she was visiting had that 'Cook of the Month' competition. You know," it seemed that the small talk was keeping Mr. Cohen from falling apart, so the detective nodded encouragingly, "all the women make cakes and tarts and everything and the children decide which tastes best and the winner gets a ribbon and everything… The kids prepare a play and a small concert. Nice idea, all in all," his voice trailed off as the thought of his wife's death crossed his mind again. "I can't believe she's gone… And in such a way…" Tears welled up in his eyes again.

Woody thought how it had been a good decision not to tell him the details. Blunt force trauma was all the husband knew for now. He reckoned it was probably the time for him to leave.

"One last question, Mr. Cohen." He tried even though the answer was more than predictable, "Do you or your wife know a Madison Moore?"

"No," Leonard Cohen's eyes widened in surprise. The name sounded familiar, but he didn't know from where. "Should we?"

* * *

Jordan was trying hard to concentrate on the autopsy report she was writing. It seemed that they weren't an inch closer to the killer. And it was only a matter of hours when the press was going to be all over the cases, blowing them out of all proportions and coining a pompous name for the murderer. She sighed. It also was a matter of time when the next body was going to appear, making the whole thing a serial killer case – three bodies and it's serial. Keeping in mind that whoever was doing it was becoming angrier, the interval between the killings was bound to be shorter.

She put her pen to paper again, writing the time of death into the corresponding blank. It was about 9 pm the previous evening, two hours before she was found.

Jordan continued to write for a while, when her stomach made a threatening sound. She glanced at her chocolate donut, but it only made her stomach flutter. And definitely not in a good way. "It's not lunchtime yet. I'll survive." She dismissed the idea of eating the donut anyway and forced herself to go back to Julie Cohen's autopsy report. A couple of lines afterwards, she almost jumped from her seat. "That could be it," she thought. "And if I'm right…" She headed to Trace.

* * *

Jordan was sitting on the edge of a computer desk when Nigel entered Trace.

"Didn't know you were here, luv." He was taken aback when he saw her.

"Yeah, well," she smiled, motioning towards a piece of equipment, "I'm just running something through the mass spectrometer."

At that moment, the machine in question beeped and Jordan touched the closest computer screen to have her results printed. She jumped off the desk to get them, but Nigel was faster.

"Blood analysis?" he was puzzled. "But, there wasn't a drop of blood anywhere on the scene…"

"Yeah, I know!" she snapped at him, pulling the paper from his hand. "And did you know that Julie Cohen isn't the only case I'm working on? Does Lilly Jones ring any bells?"

He was bewildered at her outburst.

"Sorry, luv, I was just saying…"

"No, no, I'm sorry, Nige," she regretted her behavior. "I overreacted," she said, folding the results. "I've got somewhere else to be," she headed for the door.

Opening the door, she ran into Woody.

"Just the person I was looking for." He smiled broadly. "Wanna grab some lunch?"

"No, not now." She seemed eager to walk past him. "I've got to go," she said, walking through the door. "A case," she glanced back at him, flashing him the paper and a weak smile.

* * *

Flashes blinded her the moment she stepped out of the building. She cursed under her breath.

"Dr. Cavanaugh! Dr. Cavanaugh!" How the hell did they know her name? Then again, those vultures always knew everything. She cursed again. Of all the days, she had to park in front of the morgue precisely today. She had enough on her mind already. She couldn't deal with these leeches right now. Clenching her jaw, she started to make her way through the crowd of reporters and photographers.

"Dr. Cavanaugh, does the ME's Office think it's a serial killer?"

"What's COD, Dr. Cavanaugh?"

"Is it true that the killer is copying the Black Dahlia murder?"

"No comment," she answered curtly.

A minute later, she sighed, relieved, and started up her El Camino. For some time, she pondered where to go. Then she just shrugged and pulled away from the curb.

* * *

"I just stopped by to see if there's anything new by any chance," Woody addressed Nigel once he had gotten over Jordan's strange behavior. It was just Jordan being… Jordan.

"Nope," sighed Nige. "But I'm telling you, mate, Madison Moore wasn't the first. Nobody would have done it so perfectly."

Woody gave it a thought.

"So, you're saying there have been others? Before her?"

"Yes." Nigel nodded. "And we're bound to find them. Sooner or later. And then they're going to lead us to our man."

The detective had to admit there was logic in that. The only thing left was to hope that it would happen sooner rather than later.


	5. The Past Catches Up

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Crossing Jordan_.

**Note:** I decided to post this so quickly after chapter four so that I don't go back to it and be able to concentrate on the mystery part more. So, if you feel it's a bit rushed, I'm sorry. I just didn't feel like writing it again.

Hope that this morose note didn't put all of you off. :)

* * *

"That is just impossible. That is _not_ possible." She had been staring at the wall for so long that her eyes hurt, these words playing in her mind again and again. She looked down at the paper she had brought from the morgue for the umpteenth time. "It obviously _is_ possible," she concluded, for the umpteenth time as well. "Fun-freakin-tastic!" she thought dryly, feeling tears in her eyes again. She thought they had dried out some time ago.

So, it was over. Not the way she thought it would happen, not even in her wildest dreams, but it was over. Definitely. Irrevocably.

She opened her purse and took out a bottle.

"Over 99 per cent," she chuckled hysterically. "Me out of a thousand women. Somebody up there really loves me!"

She examined the results one more time although she already knew them by heart.

"Eight weeks. Maybe nine."

"It's not fair!" she moaned some time afterwards. Why she? Why now? She had done everything by the book! Was this some kind of a cosmic revenge? And for what?

She wasn't ready to be a mother. She never would be. She didn't want to be a mother. She felt like a monster. They would all look at her as though she had at least two heads if she told them. But no matter what they thought, she just couldn't. She couldn't keep that baby. Which meant she and Woody were over. She could see him – grumbling about them not being married just like a real boy scout would do, searching for the special ring, proposing, babying her, making college plans long before the baby was born, Little League, Christmasses, birthdays,… He would be a perfect father. But not to her child. Because she wasn't going to have one. Ever.

But she couldn't just make an appointment with her doctor without even telling him. She owed him that much. And he owed her respect, if not understanding. She simply couldn't.

She felt like a monster again. What was wrong with her? She loved him. She _did_ love him. More than she ever thought it was possible to love somebody. How come she couldn't love his baby, then? How come she didn't want his baby? There must be something terribly wrong with her. Anyway,… she simply couldn't. She just couldn't. She couldn't. Period.

Some people just shouldn't have kids and she was one of them. There were times when she was so messed up that she couldn't live with herself. How could she ever raise a child? It had been different with Kayla, almost an adult. Make a good, stable, healthy person from a tabula rasa? She just couldn't. Her own child was bound to start seeing a shrink the moment it started talking. Or even before that. If it ever started talking, that is. 'Cause it was quite possible that Woody would come home from work one fine day and find her holding their baby's head under water in the bathtub. Or even worse, he could be late. She shuddered.

"I'm not her. I'm not her. I'm not her…" No matter how many times she would repeat the words, she couldn't bring herself to believe in them. "Yeah, and why did you leave the oven on last night if you're not her, if you're nothing like her?" a voice in her head inquired. "I'm just saying…"

Oh, great, she was hearing voices. "I am crazy," she said out loud, matter-of-factly.

Her parents should never have had children. Her life was screwed since day one, possibly even before that – a cuckoo mother, a lying father, a crazy half-brother. Gosh, what a family!

And now she had drawn Woody into the middle of her mess. To tell the truth, she had done that a long time ago. And she shouldn't have. She should have kept the wall up. Nobody would have been hurt had she done so. Yes, she wouldn't have these last two and a half months, but she also wouldn't have to face him and… Oh God, what was she going to tell him? "Hey,Woody, thanks for a wonderful evening and oh, by the way, I'm pregnant and I can't keep the baby?" Or maybe: "I love you, but I'm not able to raise your child. Please, don't leave me?" How 'bout: "You know, I've made an appointment to see my doctor today. I'm gonna have an abortion?" She could always just run away… She shook her head. Not this time. Maybe later. Yes, most probably later. Afterwards. But she had to tell him. She owed him that much. But not tonight. She turned off her cell and unplugged her landline. Not tonight.

* * *

The next two days were difficult. More than difficult. They were tormenting. The morning after her discovery, she mused over calling in sick, but she guessed he would come to see how she was feeling, so she just went to work instead. She had figured out he'd come till lunchtime. He stopped by at eleven.

"Hey." He poked his head into her office. "What was with you yesterday? You just stormed off and you haven't been answering any of your phones since." He tried not to sound too concerned or curious. It was Jordan, she'd become even quieter if he insisted.

"Oh, nothing," she answered, not lifting her head from the report in front of her. "I was tired, that's all."

"Jordan, you sure everything's okay?" He made another attempt. He was standing in front of her desk now.

She gave him a full display of the black circles under her eyes. "Everything is just fine. It's just," she waved her hands, "this Dark Dahlia thing and everything. I've got a lot of work to do, so if you don't mind…" she looked down at the report again.

"Sure." He was hurt. But it had never been easy with Jordan. She obviously wasn't ready to talk yet. "If you… well, I'm free for lunch," he made one last, desperate attempt.

"Sure, sure," she muttered, her eyes fixed onto the table. When the door closed behind him, not so quietly as usually, her head fell onto the report, her tears making blots all over it.

He didn't call. She didn't call.

* * *

Walking to her parking space, she was shivering although it was mid-July. The decision had been made. She was going to his apartment. She had to tell him. She tried desperately to fight off the images from these last couple of months – the images of them dancing in some pub or another, them laughing, them holding hands like schoolkids, them walking in the rain, them kissing by the Charles under the moonlight, them making love in the perfect silence of her bedroom. His lips in her hair, his forehead against hers, his arms around her when she would wake up in the middle of the night, that distinctively his scent on her pillow even when he wasn't there. An extra toothbrush in her bathroom, a pale blue shirt in her hamper, a BPD T-shirt under her bed. The shivers down her spine whenever his breath touched her ear, the warmth of his fingers tracing her jaw line, her foolish grin when they would just lie snuggled in the dark and he would whisper the silliest little words of endearment. He telling her he loved her and she not remaining silent, but replying in the same words. And really meaning it. And not wanting to run away. Because with him it was safe. With him it felt right. Home.

"Oh, but you knew it all along, you idiot!" she screamed inside, wanting to kick something, to throw things, to scream on the outside, too. "What did you think? That he'd never want a family? A real home? You thought you were going to be enough? You? A crazy old broad? Oh, please, don't make me laugh!"

She just wanted that inner voice or whatever it was to stop. It was tearing her apart. But she had to admit she had swept under the carpet many a sideway glance he would give her as she was holding Maddie, many a smile he would flash to kids in the street. But it would all be different had they gotten to talk about it before… before _this_.

"Would it really? You were just buying your time!" She shook her head. "It's not fair! I love him. Why can't we just…" She shook her head again, feeling helpless, feeling beyond help. "Because you're crazy, that's why! You're thirty-eight, for God's sake! This may well be your last chance-"

"No, no, I can't! I just can't!" she moaned out loud, feeling hot tears pouring down her face. Her hands trembled as she was putting her key into the lock of the El Camino. She never saw the shadow. All she felt was a sudden pain at the back of her head and then all was darkness.

* * *

"Just once." He sighed. "If she doesn't pick up, I won't call her again," he promised to himself as he hit speed dial. "C'mon, Jordan, answer it, please," he prayed silently, but all he was getting was the same depressing tone. "Fine!" he finally said, snapping the phone shut. He couldn't know that, at the very same moment, her phone stopped ringing inside of her El Camino, which was parked at a local auto graveyard.

She didn't call. He didn't call.

* * *

Almost two days later, on Sunday afternoon, Bug joined Woody at a crime scene. As they ducked under the police tape, the detective asked, trying to sound casual:

"Where's Jordan?"

Bug shot him an incredulous look.

"I was going to ask you the same question," he said, kneeling beside the body. "She took Saturday off, but she didn't show up today, either. Dr. Macy is going ballistic. She isn't picking up or returning his calls."

He examined the body.

"It seems that the doggy who uncovered her did us a great favor. My guess is that she has been here for four to six months" He looked up at Woody. "She may have been the first."

But the detective wasn't listening to him. His eyes were locked on the girl's hair. Long, dark, curly. It was a crazy thought, but as soon as it crossed his mind, he knew it was true.

"Get her to the morgue! Now!" he shouted at the bewildered Bug. "I'm calling Dr. Macy!"


	6. Frenzy

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Crossing Jordan_. The same goes for all Boston newspapers. xD

**Note:** Looks like I've been burning the midnight oil again. :)) Anyway, the following may be regarded as a spoiler - consider yourself warned: in order not to make this chapter outrageously long, I had to leave Jordan's part of the story for the next one.

And now a few words about the previous two chapters... Wow, I was really (pleasantly) surprised to see all those positive reviews! And this is why: I had been convinced that most of you would be bothered with the way I depicted Jordan's feelings towards her pregnancy. But what can I do, I never was really able to picture her as very happy upon finding about it. Anyways, glad you liked it after all! :) So, **ruth609**, **BugFan4Ever**, **cjloverforever**, **lbcjfan**, **Mexwojo**, **xOlly**, **buddies**, **Sakura kaze fuku**, thanks for reviewing!! xD

Oh yeah, I almost forgot: you make the Y incision with the belly of the blade, but the blade isn't blunt. Thanks to BugFan4Ever for pointing out my extremely stupid mistake from chapter 4 (which won't be corrected, so that it could remind me of my own stupidity). I really should have known better. Sorry. :)

* * *

The air was cold, but humid. "Funny weather for mid-July," a trivial thought crossed his mind. It was starting to rain again. He was trying to muffle his footsteps across the wet concrete as much as he could, for everything around him was perfectly, unnaturally, still in the dusky sunset. His heart pounded heavily as he was approaching the ramshackle old warehouse. There was no time to call for backup. There was no need to, either. What was the worst that could happen? He was wearing his Kevlar. His heart was beating fast and hard in his throat, choking him. This wasn't the usual rush of adrenaline he would get each time he was part of an important operation. This was pure fear. He was drowning in a pool of his own cold sweat. He had the feeling that his gun was going to hit the ground any moment – it was going either to slip away from his wet hands or to be dropped because of the uncontrollable shaking of those hands. Every second seemed like an eternity. Not until he was an inch from the door did he notice it was slightly ajar. He stretched out his trembling arm and swung it open. On auto pilot, he repeated the well-known and coordinated movements – he turned round the big, bare room to see where the perp was. He saw nobody. The room was empty except for a couple of carton boxes thrown carelessly around.

The shaking didn't cease, but his heart sunk as his eyes filled with burning tears of rage and impotence. He had been desperately trying to hang on to the very last, completely worn out, thread of hope, but now the grip was lost and he felt himself flying headlong, at the speed of light, into an abyss the darkness of which had no match. He didn't know for how long he had been unable to move – it could have been two seconds or two hours. He was about to leave that bleak place when he felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to cast yet another glance at those god-forsaken boxes. He swallowed hard. He knew not how he could have missed it earlier: amidst them was a pile, a pile which ominously resembled a human being. Involuntarily, he stepped towards it, stumbling over his own feet, his heartbeats suffocating him again. Then his heart stopped.

Her face seemed peaceful: her eyes were closed, her half-parted lips had the tiniest little unearthly smile on them. She seemed past all worries - so indescribably calm, so indescribably beautiful. The sight mirrored the one he had wanted to memorize down to its minutest detail the other morning. Only, then she had been tucked up in her bed, safe and sound, and now she was lying on the cold floor of a long-forgotten warehouse, her limbs under the strangest angles, an ugly dark flower in her unruly curls. He knew there was no need to call 911. He knew she was dead. He felt the unexpectedly excruciating need to touch her. He kneeled beside her and his unsteady hand reached out to touch her cold cheek. When his fingertips brushed her skin, it felt like he dived into a pool of ice cold water. He didn't manage to recover from this shock before her dark eyes opened and she looked him straight in the eye. Her gaze was full of anguish, lined with reproach. Then she slowly spoke, in a low, but clear voice, "You didn't find us on time."

Woody jerked awake. His clothes were drenched in sweat and his heart was thumping wildly, but he was immensely thankful to God when he found himself sitting at Jordan's desk in her office and not kneeling next to her corpse somewhere in the suburbs. That fit of joy, or rather: relief, didn't last long, however. He was well aware of how slim their chances were. She had been missing for over forty-eight hours. Assuming that the killer would stick to his timetable and... oh God... kill her near the end of day three, they had some twenty hours to find her. And they were still clueless. If he didn't find something real soon, he was bound to find her… No… No! That couldn't happen. It just couldn't! He would find her. Them. He had to. It was all his fault. Hadn't he been acting like a tenth grader… Hadn't he been sulking and just waited for her after work or gone to her place instead, had he… With great effort, he finally succeeded in shaking those thoughts off. Now he had to focus. He was obviously missing something. He opened the Madison Moore file for the umpteenth time, gathering all the strength he had left in a futile attempt not to look at the piece of paper which was lying near the edge of the desk, the one Nigel had given him a few hours before.

* * *

Some three or four hours earlier, the entire gang was in Autopsy One. Bug was hastily, but still carefully, doing the external examination of Jane Doe who had, in all probability, been the first victim of the Dark Dahlia killer. Meanwhile, Woody was shouting at Dr. Macy and Nigel. He was like a man possessed. The fact that Macy and Nige seemed to accept his words rather coolly wasn't very helpful.

"What's wrong with you, people?" he yelled, incredulous, waving the autopsy photos of Moore and Cohen in front of their faces.

Nigel looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to another. At last, Dr. Macy stopped Woody's tirade.

"Calm down," he said firmly. The detective wanted to protest, but Garret's decisive movement stopped him. "Just after our conversation, Nigel came to my office. He thinks he knows why Jordan's left."

This was too much for Woody.

"Left?!" His voice seemed to increase in volume even more, although a couple of moments ago one would think that would be impossible. "Are you crazy? She hasn't left! She's been kidnapped! By the Dark Dahlia killer! For God's sake-"

"Calm down, Detective!" Macy interrupted. "Or I will have to ask you to leave. Your claim has absolutely no grounds."

Upon hearing this, Woody threw his hands in the air, desperate. What was going on? Had the entire morgue gone round the bend?

"At least for now," Chief ME resumed, somewhat soothingly. "Let's not panic. After you hear what Nigel has to say, you may change your mind."

The detective was fed up with Jordan's so-called friends' behavior and all that mysteriousness surrounding Nigel's revealing confession.

"What is it? What on Earth can be so important?"

Nigel was still staring at his shoes. Dr. Macy gave him a nudge.

"Nigel…"

"Oh, yeah..." He fidgeted. "I-I think you should see this," he made himself look at Woody as he was handing him a piece of paper.

A glance at the paper outraged Woody. To him, it made just as much sense as the Chinese ideograms on a paper bag from Yang Chow's.

"What the-"

Before he could proceed, Nigel continued, "On Wednesday, somewhere around lunch, I went to Trace to see if I could-" He was always doing it, this time unintentionally - telling the whole unnecessary story instead of two sentences, that is.

"Nigel," Woody growled.

"Anyway, as you probably remember," he looked at Woody, "Jordan was there. She was doing blood analysis, which I found odd since there was no blood at Julie Cohen crime scene. She told me she was analyzing Lilly Jones's blood, but I had my doubts. So, when both of you were gone, I printed the results of the last analysis carried out." He looked away guiltily. He had proven once again that he indeed was Mr. Gossip, sticking his nose in everybody's business. "The tests," he motioned towards the paper Woody was holding, "show… well, show that the person in question is pregnant."

The detective stared at him blankly.

"Why would Jordan go away because some Lilly Jones was pregnant?"

As he uttered the words, he realized, even before Nigel gently stated, "Lilly Jones was fifty-eight."

The autopsy room was spinning around Woody. He needed to sit down. Grabbing the edge of Bug's autopsy table, he muttered:

"She wouldn't." He shook his head: "She wouldn't. She promised. No more running away," he was talking to himself. But wouldn't she? Really? Her strange behavior wasn't a mystery any more. He remembered her storming off from Trace, the dark circles under her eyes, pushing him away, not taking his calls. Maybe… maybe she just needed some time to think it over. But if so, couldn't that period still last? No, no, she'd call by now. She would. She'd know they must be sick with worry. She would never just disappear.

As he looked at Macy's and Nigel's sympathetic faces, it hit him all of a sudden. There was a simple way to check their assumption.

* * *

It still felt so strange that he actually had a spare key to her place that he would often forget he had it. He unlocked the door anxiously.

"Jordan?" he called gently, but there was no reply. He quickly searched the apartment, but she obviously wasn't there.

He smiled. The place was in a familiar, Jordanesque mess – a book here and there, an empty carton of chunky monkey, a half-empty box of chocolate pralines, empty bottles of evian, a blue sock on the floor next to the couch, a couple of tee-shirts carelessly thrown onto a chair. He recognized the one she was wearing when he last saw her and was snapped back to reality. He was right. She obviously hadn't left. There hadn't been a time in his life when he more wished he was wrong. He needed to get back to the morgue as soon as possible.

* * *

And here he was: in the morgue, in Jordan's office. He put the Moore file down. It was frustrating. He couldn't find anything helpful. Nigel hadn't still managed to trace her phone. The situation seemed hopeless. He took a deep breath. There had to be something. His eyes fell onto Jordan's picture in a newspaper. It was the edition for Thursday. The photo must have been taken on Wednesday when she was leaving the morgue. She looked distracted, worried. She must have known by then.

"I only wish you had told me, Jordan," he whispered. He knew she must have been frightened. He knew the whole story about James. "I wish you had told me, baby."

He forced himself to return to the file. She would tell him. He was going to find her, them, and she was going to tell him. Everything was going to be all right. It had to be.

Bug walked in. He still had his scrubs on.

"I finished the autopsy," he said solemnly, "and I am now convinced that this Jane Doe was the first victim. COD is strangulation. Lacerations are postmortem. He was practicing on her. His cuts are less precise; you can see hesitation, insecurity. Seely is still searching through missing persons reports and Dr. Macy is trying to get a dental records match, but it will take some time."

It took Woody a lot of effort to restrain his tongue. Time was precisely what they lacked.

"But we did find something," Bug continued. "On the blanket she was wrapped into. Traces of a solution called collodion. It was used in the so-called wet plate photography. Some still use it."

He paused for a couple of moments before adding:

"It's not much-" he stopped, taken aback by his friends actions.

Woody had opened Jordan's laptop and was typing frantically. The word 'photography' resonated in his brain, followed by: "Millie has a scrapbook with all Maddie's appearances in social column." and "That was taken the other day." as well as his own: "The photo must have been taken on Wednesday." He had been so stupid, so blind!

According to _Google_, there had been eight newspapers in Boston. He first eliminated the Spanish one and then _Beacon Hill Times_ and _Business Journal_. In the end, he was left with _Herald_, _Tribune_ and _Phoenix_. After a few more minutes, he found out that only _Boston Tribune_ had published short news about the "Cook of the Month" competition that Julie Cohen won.

"He's a newspaper photographer," he addressed Bug, motioning towards the screen. "This photo from the contest Julie Cohen entered and this photo of Jordan," he pointed at the copy of _Tribune_ lying besides the computer, "were taken by the same man, one W. P. Douglas. And I bet he's photographed Madison Moore and Jane Doe, too."

Bug was unconvinced. "Press reporters use digital cameras," he pointed out. "Besides, it might have been a reader."

"No." Woody shook his head impatiently. "It's him. Who says he doesn't do that wet… whatever thing in his free time? And look at this photo, the only one published from that charity thing" he turned the laptop towards Bug. "Julie Cohen isn't in it. There are only kids. It couldn't have been a reader. Our guy was there."

He was completely convinced of his theory and the ME was starting to believe in it, as well. As Bug slowly nodded, they heard fast steps in the corridor, followed by Nigel's frantic "I've managed to trace her phone!"


	7. Hell

**Disclaimer**: I do not own _Crossing Jordan_.

**Note:** First of all, thanks to: **xOlly**, **ruth609**, **Mexwojo**, **Pandorea**, **BugFan4Ever**, **cjloverforever** and **Tawnyleaf**! As always, constructive criticism is very much appreciated, but I don't mind praise, either. :))

Furthermore, I think that this site hasn't been functioning properly - I haven't received a couple of story and review alerts, so it's not my fault if some of you haven't gotten my review reply. I'm sorry, guys, 'cause what I like about this site is precisely that possibility of interaction. Ok, I'm rambling again...

* * *

The first thing she became aware of was the pulsing pain at the back of her head. It felt like her brain was throbbing. Her hand flew up, but instead of finding its way through her tangled curls and landing on the painful spot, it lingered in mid-air for a fraction of a second before going back downwards and resting protectively on her abdomen. For a moment, she was confused by this reaction, but then her still dazed mind started functioning.

"The baby." She recalled the ordeal of the last few days, caressing her belly absent-mindedly. "Instinct." She diminished the fact that her first movement when she woke up was directed towards protecting her unborn child. The one she didn't want, supposedly.

She still felt dizzy, but it slowly dawned on her: why being defensive? From what was she trying to protect the baby? Why did her head hurt so much? The last thing she remembered was walking to the El Camino. After that, everything was darkness. What had happened? Had she collapsed? Who'd brought her to her place? Woody? She stretched her arm, fumbling for him, when it hit her: she was still completely dressed, she even had her shoes on. None of her friends, much less Woody, would have left her like that. Moreover, this bed was far smaller than hers, than either of their beds. A hospital, maybe? She immediately ruled it out because of the clothes.

Alarmed, she jumped off the bed. Apparently, her body didn't like that very much. Red specks appeared in front of her eyes, quickly changing to green ones and then turning blue, as she clutched the headboard in a desperate attempt to stay on her feet. After some time - she wasn't able to determine how long it had been - she finally felt capable of loosening her grip. Taking deep breaths, she tried to remain rational. She now remembered – she hadn't blacked out at the morgue's parking lot, she had been hit on the head. Had she been kidnapped? She had been kidnapped. God, she had been kidnapped! But why? And by whom?

"James," was her first impulse. "No way." She shook her head almost momentarily. "Firstly, he's probably dead. Secondly, this isn't his style."

She was one hundred per cent sure she was right – it hadn't been James. That conclusion made the entire situation even more frightening. She could hear her heart beat and felt it rising from her rib cage, through her throat, until she felt it in her mouth. Her breathing was getting shallower by the second. Both her medical education and her common sense were telling her she had to do something. Fast, before she broke down, in a full-blown panic attack. Mustering all the strength she could, she forced herself to take deep breaths. Some minutes elapsed before she managed to regain her composure.

"Don't panic. There has to be a light switch somewhere here," she encouraged herself, stumbling, her arms stretched out in front of her.

After a couple of moments, her fingertips reached a hard surface, which she assumed was a wall. She moved along it, groping for the switch, but could find none for what seemed an eternity. Meanwhile, she discovered that some parts of the wall were oddly slick – like they had posters of some kind. When her fingers finally met the familiar shape of a light switch, she thanked God. A second later, she shrieked in horror.

Her eyes had met the dead, vacant eyes of a naked, beaten woman she recognized as Madison Moore. Still shuddering from the shock and repulsion, she looked around. All in all, about a quarter of the walls of that 15x15 ft room was covered with life-size pictures of dead women: all lying on the very same bed she had recently gotten up from, all tied to that bed, all full of bruises. What struck her as the initial shock was wearing off was the fact that none of the girls was mutilated. Returning to the bed, she looked for the traces of blood on the mattress. There were none. She didn't spot any sign of blood on the naked floor, either.

"The bastard does that somewhere else," she concluded, fighting the urge to vomit.

Feeling that her legs were starting to refuse obedience and that her whole body was shaking uncontrollably, she set onto the bed, which was the only piece of furniture in the room. Her eyes darted around, looking anxiously for the door, but the only exit was on the ceiling, which was some seven feet high. She knew it must be locked, but she had to try. She couldn't curl up and wait for that creep. Once she trusted her legs enough, she stood up and tried to move the bed, her only chance to reach the door. Tears of anger and horror welled up in her eyes as she learned that it was nailed to the ground. She couldn't do anything but curl up and wait for that creep.

She was trying to wipe the tears away, but they seemed to be coming at the speed of light. They were pouring and she could do nothing but wait till their flow slowed down at least a bit. Burying her face in her hands, she sobbed silently. She was certain she was going to die.

"Why me? Why now?" she asked herself, not missing the fact that a few days ago she had been asking the same question. That only made her sobs more frequent. "I haven't even told you. I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry… It's all my fault…" She wasn't quite sure why, but she felt she was to blame. "I'm sorry, Woody," she repeated. Yes, she was afraid for her life, but not so much because she feared death – the prospect of imminent death didn't really horrify her, not after everything she had been through. If nothing else, while working at a morgue, you learn how fragile human life is. Not that she hadn't been aware of that fact since she was ten. Death was inevitable. What tormented her was that her death was going to destroy a life that hadn't even begun, and both of their deaths were going to devastate the person she loved more than her life.

"I'm sorry," was all she could utter, over and over again, wrapping her arms around her abdomen. "I'm sorry, baby," she whispered, looking down. "How could I have? How could I have ever even thought about doing that… killing my own child? Killing my baby? Oh God, please, please, you can't… you can't… please… don't…"

Thinking about having an abortion was one thing and being faced with the certainty of losing your baby was a completely different one. Now she knew she would have never been able to get through with that idea of terminating the pregnancy. But now it was too late.

"Just deserts." The thought terrified her. "No, no, God is merciful; there is no an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," she parroted her Sunday school lessons, not quite convinced.

All of a sudden, she got the feeling that there was something else behind the 'just deserts' remark. Some hidden meaning she couldn't grasp. Something that had to do with the victims. She forced herself to look at those gory black and white photos, which covered the walls of her prison. Apart from Madison Moore and Julie Cohen, there were two women she hadn't seen before. She tried hard to remember all the details she had ever heard of Moore or Cohen. Closing her eyes, she relived the sight of Nigel in Trace, telling her about Julie.

* * *

"Woody," she winced when Nige mentioned the name and hoped that he didn't notice, "says she was an ordinary suburban housewife – white picket fence and everything. She was quite involved in charities, as it seems. She contributed to various children's homes. It seems she couldn't have kids, poor thing…" Misty-eyed, Nigel turned to the mass spectrometer, changing the subject, "So,…"

* * *

Jordan gasped. That was it! At first it seemed impossible, but the more she thought about it, the more sense it made. There was Madison Moore – married to her job, not planning any children, then Julie Cohen – unable to have any, and now herself – pregnant and not wanting the child. So, this was some kind of a missionary killer – set out to free the world of those seemingly contributing, but actually useless (in his mind) members of society - those without offspring. Was it? She shook her head, it all seemed overly dramatic to her. Then again, this whole situation _was_ dramatic. And that was an understatement. But something else was bothering her. She knew it was there, but couldn't put her finger on it.

"I'm missing something." She was pacing the room. Crossing the distance between the bed and the wall for the umpteenth time, she realized, "Nobody knew I was pregnant. This wasn't it. This was random," she concluded. After giving it a second thought, she wasn't sure, though. "Was it? I was like Moore… But I had a relationship and I may have wanted kids…"

After some more pacing and trying to understand what could not be understood, at least not with the little information she had, she finally gave up.

"Nothing seems to have sense," she sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. Then she remembered something else. "How long have I been here?"

It was impossible to tell since she didn't even know if it was night or day. She did know one thing, though. She took Saturday off – nobody was going to notice she had gone missing by Sunday afternoon. At least. And he was going to kill her on Monday if he hadn't changed his pattern. She shivered. Woody was going to find her. He had always managed to find her. And Garret and Nigel and Bug. They would all help him and he would find her and he would bring her home, bring them home. He had to.

"He will find us," she said loudly, seeking the way to reassure herself. She had never been the one to believe in fairy tales and miracles, but she had to keep hope alive. For her baby.

A sharp noise startled her. It resembled screeching of nails across a blackboard. She frowned, wiping the residues of tears away with the back of her hand. The son of a bitch was coming and she was not going to give him the pleasure of seeing her cry.

A small ladder found its way through the door on the ceiling. Almost instantly, a sharp steel blade appeared. Usually, Jordan would do something. She would probably run to the ladder, tried to fight the attacker. But now she just stood there – because of her baby. She couldn't risk her baby. There was one other thing, though. She had been shocked upon seeing the person who was now approaching her.

"Don't try to do anything stupid, bitch," the killer said. "After all, you'll get only a sneak preview tonight. But don't you worry; the next two days will be a real thing."

Jordan still just stood in the same spot. She wouldn't be able to move even if she wanted to. She was numb, looking at the murderer's long golden hair and cruel pearly white smile. The Dark Dahlia killer was a woman.

* * *

**And another A/N :):** This chapter should have included some discoveries of our beloved gang, but I decided to leave that for the next one (I know, I know, I'm repeating myself) and get some sleep. Anyway, I'll risk being spoilerish and tell you that not everything is as it appears...


	8. Towards the End

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Crossing Jordan_.

**Note:** First, I was soo lazy. Then, when I sat down, this just didn't want to be written. In the end, I won. Hopefully.

Thanks a million to:**BugFan4Ever**, **Velms**, **NCCJFAN**, **Sakura kaze fuku**, **Mexwojo**, **ruth609** and **Pandorea**! Thanks to **creativequeen** and **TVholic29**, as well, but I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me why you liked it.

* * *

"Here it is." Seely pulled out a sheet from his rather thick folder filled with missing persons reports. "Judith Thomas, thirty-nine," he parroted what Garret had already told them a minute ago, when he got a dental match. "She went missing in February. But get this," he couldn't resist making a brief dramatic pause, even in the given circumstances, "she was a secretary at _Boston Tribune_."

"That's it," Woody said more to himself than to anybody else, "I'm bringing that guy in. Got the address yet, Nige?"

"In a sec," feverishly, the Brit pressed enter a few more times. As a result, the personal data of a William Patrick Douglas appeared on the screen and the detective wrote the address down to his ever-present pad.

"Okay, Nigel and Bug, go with Seely and process Jordan's car, four hands work faster than two." Woody started organizing their little group. "Dr. Macy," he turned to Garret, "you could call Ms. Wolcott and see if she could help us with the warrant. I doubt we'll get one since we don't have much 'real' evidence and since it's Sunday night and, frankly, I couldn't care less. I'm not gonna waste any more time. I'm going to visit Douglas."

As he strode decisively to the door, Matt Seely stopped him in his tracks.

"No." He was resolute, as well. "You go with Nigel and Bug," he said, ignoring Woody's glare. "I'll go to the suspect. You're far too involved and you losing your temper is the last thing we need."

"I'm beginning to lose my temper right now," Woody retorted, daggers flying from his eyes. "Get out of my way, Seely. Now. Or, I swear-" he started menacingly.

The redhead detective didn't seem affected at all, so Macy intervened.

"I agree with Seely," he told them. The statement earned him the looks of disbelief on both men's faces. "But I know that you'll go anyway," he addressed Woody, "so I'll come with you." He turned to Matt, whose half-smug facial expression was rapidly fading away: "Seely, you go with Bug and Nigel, so that everything is done by the book."

"You are a medical examiner," Matt Seely retorted matter-of-factly. "You don't conduct police investigations. If you wanna be a cop, do the test. Till then-"

"I don't give a crap what you'll do, Seely," Woody spat out. "If you don't want to go with them – fine. But don't waste any more of my time." He walked determinately past the other detective, his shoulder brushing against the unprepared Matt, who lost his balance for a moment. Dr. Macy closely followed.

"Fine," Seely said to the door. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He then turned to Bug and Nigel, who joined him after they packed their bags: "C'mon. Let's find something 'cause I've got the feeling that Hoyt won't get far with that guy."

* * *

Half an hour later, Woody pulled over in front of a nice pseudo-Georgian house in an upper-middle class neighborhood. Then he changed his mind and parked in front of the opposite house. As he and Garret hurriedly got out of the car, the older man snapped his phone shut.

"Renee says she'll make a couple of calls, but she's not very optimistic," Macy said while Woody rang the doorbell for the third time.

Finally, a woman in her late thirties opened the door, staring at them questioningly.

"Good evening," Woody addressed her, employing his friendly detective look. "I'm Det. Hoyt and this is Dr. Macy. He's with the ME's Office." He flashed his badge. "We're looking for Mr. Douglas. Is he at home?" He made his way into the hall, past the bewildered woman.

"My husband isn't here," Mrs. Douglas replied, looking from one man to another.

"But you won't mind us looking around a little, will you?" Woody asked casually, heading towards a door.

"Well, actually,…" the woman started, but the sound of a car stopped her. "It seems that Billy has arrived," she ran a nervous hand through her blonde hair.

"Swell," was the detective's reaction.

"By the way," Garret finally spoke, "I couldn't help but notice all those lovely flowers on your lawn. You're an avid gardener, Mrs. Douglas?"

"What?" She seemed distracted. "Oh, no, my husband is," she finally said with a smile.

At that moment, the front door opened and a tall, lean man let himself in. The question was written all over his face.

"Billy, they're from police," his wife hurried.

"Yes," Woody cut in, "we just have a couple of questions for you," the dimples appeared. "Like: how many have you killed?" he approached him threateningly. "Or: where's Jordan Cavanaugh?" he had him pinned to the wall now. "If you start talking right now, maybe they won't fry you. Would some friendly persuasion help?" he hissed in his face.

Garret, whose cell went off a few moments before, placed a soothing hand to the detective's shoulder.

"Woody, we've got the warrant," he said, almost inaudibly.

* * *

"I've been thinking about it," Seely said, getting into the car and slamming the door behind him. "Why change the MO? He left Moore's and Cohen's car where they were when he snatched them, right?"

"Because," Nigel retorted, "somebody would have noticed, wouldn't they? I mean, if Jordan's car had been parked here for two days. Just like they noticed Moore's."

"Yes," Matt agreed somewhat wearily, "I was asking for the sake of conversation."

Because of that sentence, he had to endure the shocked looks both his companions gave him. Seely had never been the one to make small talk. Nor to feel the urge to explain himself to others, for that matter. However, that was exactly what he started doing:

"It's weird, you know, when it's one of ours." He paused for a moment. "She is a piece of work, definitely. But she has spunk. You gotta respect that."

"Yes, you do," Nigel said quietly, feeling Bug's hand on his shoulder. The entomologist wanted to say something comforting like: "We'll find her," but he choked on the words. He wasn't in the least bit certain they would find anything in Jordan's car.

The rest of the drive passed in an oppressive silence. Maybe it would have been easier had they talked, occupied their minds with trivialities. However, none of them was able to gather enough strength to break free from the claws of the grim thoughts that had possessed them.

It took them good forty-five minutes to get to the auto graveyard. For some time, Nigel and Bug worked in silence, with Seely watching them. They found some bright red paint chips on the lock, but nothing else. Then Bug said - not exclaimed, because Bug didn't do such things - but the excitement in his voice was obvious, "I've got something." He showed them a short sand-colored hair before putting it in an envelope.

* * *

Woody was contemplating his next move. His quick search of Douglas's house hadn't given any results. He had sent the CSU there, but he didn't hold much hope, keeping their track record in mind. Bug and Nigel hadn't called yet. And this bastard who was sitting opposite him in the box seemed mildly amused and completely unwilling to talk. Woody was certain that was his man - his cop instinct and experience were screaming: guilty, and he was indiscriminate about the means he was going to use to make him confess where Jordan was.

"Okay…" he started, when his cell rang. "This is Hoyt," glaring at the suspect, he went out.

As he listened to Nigel, he was getting angrier and angrier, looking at the photographer's sand-colored hair and wondering how many sadistic ways to kill the son of a bitch he could think of. "But not before he talks," he reminded himself.

"Thanks, Nige," he managed to utter.

"Woody, wait!" the criminologist practically yelled, afraid that the detective was going to snap his phone shut. "There's more. We found something that resembled bright red paint. The mass spectrometer showed it was some fancy nail polish."

Now Woody indeed snapped his phone shut as it hit him: the image of Mrs. Douglas running her blood red nails through her hair.

"Oh my God, they're in this together," he gasped out before rushing towards the exit. He only stopped by Det. Chandler, telling him a few words. Then he raced to his car, his heart in his mouth, dialing Nigel's number along the way.

* * *

Jordan took another swig from the paper cup beside the bed. Water was all she had tasted for the long two and a half days. She was trying hard not to think about what malnutrition could do to their baby.

"Macy is a fighter," she said, rubbing small circles across her belly, "aren't you, honey?"

During her captivity, Jordan had developed two routines. Talking to the baby when she was alone in the room was one of them. She had figured out that it might both distract her and do her child, of which she thought as of a baby girl with her hair and Woody's eyes and dimples, some good. She even named their girl.

"Well, your daddy will have to agree," she had told her then. "I mean, in the given circumstances… Though I've always been a big fan of Millie Hoyt." She chuckled, visiting the past for a moment. "We can name your sis Millie. But, so help me God, I'm not naming any of your brothers after presidents… Ooh, you see, Macy? A few days ago I thought I'd never have any kids and here I am now, planning a soccer team. You sure know how to cast spell on people, kiddo… Anyway, your uncle Garret will be… Wait: uncle Garret or grandpa Garret?" She smiled, musing over the question for a couple of moments. "Hm, let's sweep his feelings under the rug and call him your grandpa. For, God knows it won't be easy to find your grandpa Max. But your uncle Nigel will eventually find him. He's like a wizard. Only with a computer… Have I told you about uncle Nige yet? Yes? Then, what about your cousin Maddie, huh?"

The second routine was something that she had been practicing when she was a little girl, still a bit afraid of her dentist. Whenever he would drill or do God knows what else, she'd think of something nice. Now she was trying to do the same. Whenever her torturer, a beautiful woman with a cruel smile and a cold voice, would slap her across the face or put out another cigarette on her arm, she would close her eyes, going back to baking cookies with her grandma, singing with her mom, cheering at Fenway with her dad, sharing a drink with Garret after their shift, laughing with Bug and Nigel at Beef 'n' Brew, kissing Woody in the Mojave Desert. Occasionally, she would sneak into the future: Woody's I-just-got-all-I-ever-wanted-for-Christmas face upon finding out about the baby, shopping with Lily for baby supplies, her dad's return.

Jordan was both grateful and confused after reaching the conclusion that she had been using the first trick – talking to the baby – much more often than the second one. The woman would come rarely – only two times a day, and she wouldn't be as violent as expected – Jordan had only earned a couple of bruises, a torn lip (thanks to the woman's disgusting ring) and quite a number of burn marks.

However, the last time the golden-haired had paid her a visit, Jordan learned the reason behind her behavior.

"_Don't worry, bitch." She gently brushed off the hair from Jordan's face, the hair that had ended there when she hit her. "Billy is coming from Atlanta tonight. We'll have a real fun tomorrow," she put her cigarette to Jordan's shoulder. "I can promise you that," Jordan heard her say, as she was doing her best to swallow tears and think about her and Woody in the Pogue, dancing to 'Devil or Angel.' With that, the woman untied Jordan's right arm so that she could reach the cup, and headed for the ladder, leaving her more apprehensive than ever._

Now, on Sunday night, slumber was claiming Jordan. She embraced it. It was a more than welcome relief. For the last couple of hours, she couldn't even talk to Macy. She couldn't bring herself to do it. All she could think about was the following morning. That Billy, whoever he was, was coming. And, in all probability, he was going to come before Woody. She dozed off with a prayer on her lips.

* * *

As soon as she closed her eyes, or so it seemed, something that sounded like opening of the little ceiling door startled her. Her heart started beating wildly.

"No! No, it's not morning yet! It can't be." She tried to encourage herself.

Nevertheless, the ominous sound was repeated and she saw a shadow climbing down the ladder. When the person in question turned on the light, she saw it wasn't Billy. It was the woman again. It was the strangest feeling, but relief flooded her.

It didn't last long, though. For, the woman approached her and cuffed her, untying her left arm from the bed afterwards. Then she unceremoniously pulled her from the bed. Jordan stumbled and fell to her knees. After more than two days of lying on that bed, her legs weren't listening. The woman pulled her up using her hair.

"C'mon, bitch," she whispered threateningly. "We're going for a ride."

Jordan didn't miss the fact that she was holding a gun. Although her body wouldn't listen, her mind was racing. There were two possibilities: either Billy had decided not to come here, so the woman was taking her to him, or – her heart jumped – somebody was coming, so she needed to get her out. Either way, she was not going to make it easy. She wouldn't go like some lamb to the slaughter. And, in case that somebody was indeed coming, she was going to stay here as long as she could.

More hair pulling and slapping ensued, but Jordan wouldn't give in. She was giving as much resistance as she could. Most of the time, she was on her knees and the woman was dragging her across the floor. She felt her blood soaking her jeans and her skinned knees hurt so bad she wanted to scream, but she wouldn't surrender. After a time, the golden-haired got bored with her disobedience. She was in a hurry and needed to get over with this as soon as possible. She raised her hand, the one with the gun. Jordan wasn't quick enough. Before her head hit the floor, she felt the warm blood from her broken nose fill her mouth. She also heard something that her exhausted mind classified as a gunshot.

* * *

When he would later think about it, he couldn't remember anything clearly. Everything that followed the moment when he aimed at and shot Mrs. Douglas's arm was blur. He was holding Jordan, whose body felt limp in his arms. His shirt was drenched in her blood. A voice in his head was telling him she was dead and another one was screaming that all this was a big fat nightmare.

At some point he became aware of the people who had crowded the room. He saw a paramedic attending the blonde monster while some big guy (detective Chandler, as he later found out) was eyeing them. Then two paramedics approached him, pulling Jordan – gently, but decisively – from his embrace.

"You need to let her go, sir," one of them said. "We'll take care of her."

"Let go, Hoyt," a familiar voice said. And he obeyed, not grasping why.

When he made a move like he was going to follow the paramedics, one of them said firmly,"No." Just a 'no' and nothing else. And he again obeyed, again not grasping why.

Everything was so out of the freaking joint. He wasn't able to do anything but sit there, on the floor, in Jordan's blood, tears slowly forming in his eyes, somebody patting his back. When, after a time, he turned around to see who that was, he couldn't help himself. He chuckled hysterically. It was Matt Seely. The world had really gone round the bend.

* * *

**And another note... :** Further explanations will ensue.


	9. Explanations

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Crossing Jordan_.

**Note:** A short one this time... Thanks: **xOlly**, **BugFan4Ever**, **Buzzy-B-**, **Sakura kaze fuku**, **Mexwojo** and **lbcjfan**! :))

And just a little announcement: the next chapter will be the last one.

And, oh, I almost forgot: I did make up a few of Woody's memories, just so you know.

* * *

"I think you'd better start talking, Mrs. Douglas." Matt Seely flashed a smile to the woman across the table. "He can't help you much. Not when we caught you red-handed." He tilted his head towards the man sitting next to the woman. He knew him rather well – he was a hotshot lawyer, not very well-known for his moral principles, but for the number of rich offenders who were now getting suntan in the Bahamas and other exotic places instead of cleaning toilets in the county jail, thanks to him, John Burns, of course.

The detective looked at him with something that resembled disgust. Although Seely found money quite useful and loved it within the limits of reason, he had learned that not all revolved around those little green bills. That was the reason why he wasn't in a comfortable office, working for his daddy, but in a too hot interrogation room, which had no air-condition, questioning bad guys, or a bad girl, in this case. He loved putting criminals behind bars, where they should be. And this guy in a suit that had probably cost more than a homicide detective's salary was putting them back on the streets.

When Seely's eyes went back to Mrs. Kathy Douglas, the obvious disgust in his gaze was mixed with a small amount of amusement. How, on God's good Earth, was she thinking to get away with what she had done? Hoyt had practically seen her hit Jordan with the handle of a nine-millimeter and aim at her afterwards. Besides, there were all those heinous photographs on the walls. And her nail polish on the lock of the El Camino, which put her at the scene of Cavanaugh's abduction…

"You don't have to say anything," the lawyer warned his client.

However, Seely was hardly surprised when she said in a calm and firm voice, "No, it's all right. I want to tell him everything."

* * *

In another interrogation room, detective Chandler was having a hard time with Kathy's husband. William Douglas wasn't so willing to talk.

"Are you sure you don't want a lawyer?" Elliot asked him for at least fifth time. Only, this time he added: "I hear your wife has gotten herself one."

The muscles in his jaw twitched, but Douglas repeated, "I am innocent. I don't need a lawyer."

Chandler was a patient, karmically centered man – yoga, feng shui and everything – but this was starting to be too much for him. He took a deep breath.

"Sure you are," he said unenthusiastically. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" he asked casually.

The question seemed to have surprised Douglas a little, but he responded, "No, I don't."

"Good to know," the detective retorted. "'Cause someone from the lab should arrive any minute now. We've got a warrant for your DNA. And do you know what we found in Dr. Cavanaugh's car?" he waited for a moment, but the suspect seemed completely uninterested. "No?" Chandler continued. "We found your hair. Nice color, by the way. Not many people have it. Much less they have your mitochondrial DNA." He paused again. "Ready to talk now?"

Those muscles twitched again, but William Douglas remained silent. Well, not that he actually had the opportunity to talk – Matt Seely entered the interrogation room.

"Oh, I think he'd be ready an' willin' when we show him this tape." He almost grinned at the bewildered photographer. Seely pushed a couple of buttons and, without further ado, the moving confession of Kathy Douglas, a real drama queen, in both detectives' opinion, started.

_"It was in February," she began, her voice pretty calm, but already shaking a bit. "Our anniversary is in February. I wanted to surprise Billy, so I went… I went to our cottage, to make everything ready for the anniversary dinner. I wanted to surprise him, you see," She looked at Seely, tears welling up in her huge green eyes. "Instead, _I _was surprised. I… I found that woman, Judith, lying on the couch. She was a secretary at __'Tribune,' you know. I always suspected there was something between Billy and that… that woman. He would assure me there was nothing going on, but I just knew. A woman always does, you know?" She looked up from the table to Matt again, seeking understanding, even compassion, but was bound to find none, so she continued. "God, I was so pissed. I grabbed her by the arm and she just fell on the floor. I-I didn't know what was happening. Than I saw them – the marks. She had been strangled. I started to scream. Billy ran to me from another room. He was carrying a blanket. I… For a moment, for one terrible moment, I thought he was going to kill me, too. But he begged me to listen to him, to let him explain everything to me. I accepted. I-I loved him, detective." The pleading eyes found Matt's again – too bad she didn't know he had never been the one to care for damsels in distress. "I still do."_

_After a dramatic pause, she resumed her monologue._

_"He told me he had, indeed, killed her in a fit of rage. He admitted to having an affair with her. He said that she was threatening to tell me and that he couldn't bear the thought of me leaving him, of living without me. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't just call the police, take him in. I just couldn't. What would my life be without him?" The tears started falling now. "My parents are dead. I have no relatives, no close friends. He's everything I've got. And I loved… love him so much. I agreed to bury her somewhere, far from our cottage. I thought… Oh, I don't know what I thought, I…_

_Anyway, he then got _that _idea. H-he's quite a gardener, you know. And he was always obsessed with dark, black, flowers. Till then, I had never seen anything particularly strange in that. But, then, just as we had wrapped the poor Judith," Seely's stomach somersaulted at this amount of hypocrisy, "in that blanket, he told me he had another plan. He reminded me of some exquisitely dark dahlias he had managed to grow a couple of months before._

_"Wouldn't it be great," he said, his eyes sparkling, "if we would use those flowers to remind this city of one of the crème de la crème of unsolved crimes? If we would copy the Black Dahlia murder? If we're smart enough, which we are, we'll never get caught."_

_I was horrified." She buried her face in her hands. After a couple of moments, she lifted her gaze again. "But what could I do? He threatened he was going to kill me if I told anyone as much as a single word._

_In the end, I agreed. But never did I dream there were going to be other victims. Detective," she tried her charm once more, "you __have to believe me."_

_Seely only flashed her a cryptical smile and nodded slightly, encouraging her to continue, which she eagerly did, proceeding to other victims – from one Cindy Brown to Jordan, who was miraculously – well, thanks to the gang, actually – saved._

Now, in the interrogation room opposite the one in which that award-winning performance had taken place, detectives Seely and Chandler had the pleasure of watching the shock at the obvious betrayal wash over Billy Douglas's face. He lost his tranquil and somewhat smug attitude.

"Kathy, no," he gasped. "How could you? How could you tell them? And tell them all lies?" He ran his fingers through his hair. "You killed Judith. It was all your idea. I maybe enjoyed it, but it was all your idea." All of this was murmured, almost under his voice, at a fast rate. Loudly and clearly, he said, "I would like to make my phone call now."

* * *

"Here he is, Dr. M," Nigel shouted excitedly, striding along one of the many corridors of Massachusetts General. The 'he' in question was Woody, who had arrived at the hospital hot on the heels of the paramedics. For, his numbness, during which Matt Seely (of all the people) had been consoling him, hadn't lasted longer than a couple of minutes. Having come to his senses, he had hurried to where his place was. He had left the interrogation to Seely and Chandler. After all, the woman had been caught red-handed. His place was with Jordan and their child.

And now, here he was: leaning against the wall in front of the ER of Mass General. He hated hospitals. Not only that they were plain depressing, with their sterile white walls and worried faces of friends and relatives all over cafeterias which served the most disgusting coffee ever, but they were bringing painful memories, too.

Memories of his mother, pale and exhausted, but trying to smile to him, were vague. He had often wondered whether he had made them up over the years. Other memories were sharper.

For example, there was his father, who died less than a day upon the arrival.

Then there was Cal's alcohol overdose in high school.

Then there was him in a hospital bed and Jordan telling him some lame joke about losing his spleen. If there was one day that he could erase from his memory, that would be the one. The image was engraved deep into his mind. It burned on his closed eyelids many a time. The image of Jordan with tears which she was trying hard to suppress in her eyes, hesitatingly and insecurely turning to leave, her shoulders hunched as if she was carrying the whole world on them. He hated himself whenever he remembered that. He sometimes thought that not a lifetime could be enough for him to make it up to her.

But, then, of course, there was another moment that had been in photo-finish with the previous one. He was still not sure which of these had actually won the race for the worst hospital memory, or even memory in general. That other infamous moment was, of course, the morning after. His surgery had gone well and there was Jordan at the foot of his bed, holding some plant and babbling about chlorophyll. He was so mad at her for coming. Hadn't she come, it would all be so much easier – that would prove she didn't mean what she had said, that she didn't really care. He would be able to be angry with her for something that resembled a reason. God, was he wallowing in self-pity then.

The last memory featured Jordan lying in her hospital bed, her nose and cheeks red and a bit swollen from the surgery she had gone out of a couple of hours earlier. They didn't know why she hadn't woken up yet. He was sitting there, trying not to think about it, but not being able not to wonder how pointless his life would be if her eyes never opened. For, even if neither of them would have confessed it back then, she had been everything to him then, just like she was now. So he was just sitting there, waiting, long after the exhausted Macy, Nigel and Bug had fallen asleep. When her eyelashes finally fluttered, they sent him over the moon. But only for a moment. Then her blank stare smashed his heart. It seemed she didn't know who he was.

He shuddered, hoping that wouldn't happen this time. Although she hadn't really had amnesia after her brain surgery, those few moments had been downright frightening.

Nigel's voice startled him, but it brought him relief, as well. Everything would be easier with a little help from his friends.

"Any news yet, mate?" the Brit asked, worry written all over his face. Thanks to his lankiness, he had left Dr. Macy half the corridor behind.

"Hang on, Woody." Garret patted his back when he had finally reached them. "She's been through worse."

Then, trying to distract them all, he said, "Bug should be at the precinct right now, collecting Douglas's DNA. We're gonna nail those bastards. They're not going to get away with this."

"A fat lot of good is that going to do me if Jordan dies here. Or the baby," Woody thought. On the outside, he just nodded. He knew that Macy's intentions had been the best. He also knew that he had been like a father to Jordan, especially since Max's disappearance.

"Great job, Nige" now Woody made an attempt to conversation. "Hadn't it been for your computer skills…" he stopped, not being able to word the rest of it.

"Oh, it was nothing, really." The criminologist, who usually wasn't modest at all, waved his hand. "You gave me the idea. You said: 'Run their pets through the base, I don't care. Just find something.' I didn't run their pets, though," he allowed himself a tiny smile. "But I did check their parents. And… voil_à_! Although neither Mr. nor Mrs. Douglas had no any other real estate except that house, his mother had a cottage near Boston. Very convenient," he finished his explanation.

Afterwards, they just stood there in silence. Then one of the passing paramedics recognized Woody.

"She is going to be just fine," he said sympathetically. "A couple of bruises, a few burn marks and a broken nose, that's all. But she hit her head pretty bad and Dr. Walters wants to monitor her tonight. Besides, she needs an IV as she is pretty much dehydrated. But, all in all, she'll be okay." He smiled at them. Maybe this wasn't exactly following the rules of patients' privacy, but he couldn't care less. "Of course, none of you will be allowed to see her tonight," he said, turning to leave.

However, Woody, to whom all that sounded pretty much surreal – he had been convinced from all the blood on his shirt that Jordan was dying, grabbed his upper arm, having remembered an extremely important fact.

"And the b-baby?" he almost stammered.

"Oh, of course." The paramedic mentally kicked himself for having forgotten to mention the baby. "Luckily, Dr. Summers was here. He's an excellent ob/gyn. From what I understood, he and Dr.… um… Cavanaugh," he managed to recall the name, "had gone to med school together. Anyway," he finally realized he was rambling at a very inappropriate moment, "you can relax. The baby is fine, as well." He grinned at Woody before walking away.

Woody's trademark grin, which had been missing for a few days, reappeared. Nigel's whitey-whites became visible in their entire splendor when he practically jumped at the detective, hugging him. Even Garret hugged both Woody and Nigel, his smile definitely reaching his eyes this time.

"Maybe I could try to see her tonight after all?" Woody asked hopefully after a time.

"Look, mate," Nigel started before Macy had a chance. "I think you'd better go home, shower and change," he said, pointing at the big bloody spot on Woody's shirt. "And then come here first thing in the morning," he concluded.

* * *

He wasn't much luckier in the morning, however. The nurse in charge told him she had no permission to let him into Jordan's room. His puppy-dog look earned him some information, though. Apparently, Jordan wasn't supposed to wake up yet since she had been given some mild sleeping pills because of the nightmare she had been having. His heart broke at the news, but he was grateful that he at least had an update on her condition. Wondering briefly what to do since the same nurse had informed him Dr. Walters wasn't there, he reached the conclusion that he might as well pay a visit to Dr. Summers.

"Yes, that's a good idea," he thought. "He was.. or is, whatever, Jordan's friend. He'll probably be willing to tell me more."

After an ordeal known as: finding your way through a crowded hospital, he found himself in front of Summers's office. The doctor had left his door ajar since his air-condition hadn't been functioning for a long day and a half in the middle of a scorching Bostonian summer. The voice that was coming through that door made Woody stop in his tracks, his curled fist falling limply to his side.

"She's an old friend of mine. The meningioma was operated on only a few months ago, from what I see in her records," the doctor was saying. "They couldn't remove all of it. That's why I wanted to consult you. We both know that those things usually grow during pregnancy…"

Woody didn't hear anything else. For a second, he felt faint. Then he turned on his heel. He needed to see her. He had to. Immediately.


	10. Sealing the Deal

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Crossing Jordan_.

**Note:** Thanks to **Mexwojo**, **xOlly**, **lbcjfan**, **Velms**, **BugFan4Ever** and **2merryann** for their reviews of chapter 9! :))

**Since this is the end, I'd like to thank all the readers and reviewers (including the abovementioned, of course :)).**

So, here it is finally! The very last chapter. I'm not very happy about it, but it seems that it's the best I can do at the moment. Maybe I'll rewrite it someday.

On a side note, I changed the genre; it's crime/drama now.

* * *

Although she wouldn't be too willing to admit it, she was terribly disappointed when she woke up to find herself alone in that sickeningly white room which smelled of an equally sickening combination of medications and cleaning solutions. Ok, Garret and the guys certainly had some work to do. She didn't give them much thought anyway. But where was he? She needed him. She needed him badly – to hold her, to reassure her time and again that everything was over, that she was safe now. She was mad at herself. What was going on? She wasn't that vulnerable, whimpering creature ready to burst into tears any moment for no other reason than being in a hospital room all by herself. She was a strong, independent woman able to take care of herself. She needed nobody. She was perfectly capable of going through this alone.

"Yeah right," she muttered indignantly while trying to wipe the tears away with the back of her hand as fast as she could. That wasn't an easy task, though, since they just kept coming.

At first, she remained furious. She wasn't some crybaby, for crying out loud! Nevertheless, after a not very long time, she was happy that she was weeping. That was a good sign, a sign of a grown-up Jordan. The one who wasn't afraid to cry. The one who wasn't afraid to need somebody. The one who admitted to needing somebody. Or maybe that was a bad sign, a sign that, underneath it all, she still was that insecure little girl in a grown woman's body, the same one that had returned from LA almost six years ago. Or maybe it was just hormones.

By the time she reached the conclusion that estrogen and progesterone were the main suspects for her little outburst, her eyes had already been dry and she was smiling. She patted her abdomen. Oh God, if the remaining seven months were going to be like this, full of mood swings and rivers of tears, God help both her and Woody. Woody… Where was he?

"Oh, he probably just has something to finish at the precinct," she was convincing herself. "Maybe something that has to do with…" She shuddered. She didn't want to think about that. About them. About the golden-haired who had been dragging her across the floor like she was some object she no longer needed. About Billy, who still remained the man without a face, unknown and thus even more frightening. About the nightmare in which the woman had been telling her: "Just deserts, bitch. Nothing more." in a cold, shrill voice, while the faceless man with a butcher's knife had been approaching her slowly, relishing in each and every second of her horror and anguish. If she closed her eyes, she could see the shiny blade sparkling in the dark, the shiny blade ready to be jabbed into her flesh, making an incision on her belly. Only by employing all her powers, clutching desperately at the very last atoms of self-control, did she manage not to scream. She shook her head violently. She didn't want to think about them. Not now. Not ever. But she knew she was going to have to. Not only because of the inevitable trial, but because she needed to come to terms with that experience if she wanted to lead a normal life. She needed to deal with what had happened in that little room if she wanted to heal. But she wasn't able to face it alone. She needed him. Where was he?

Suddenly, a horrifying idea crossed her mind.

"What if… What if he… What if they…" She didn't even want to finish the thought.

She didn't need to, either, for he appeared in the doorway.

"Hey." She smiled, all grim thoughts and painful questions abandoned. He was here now and nothing else mattered.

"Hey." He smiled back, but she decided she didn't like that smile. It was… She couldn't find the word. _Forced?_ Whatever the right expression was, one thing was certain: it wasn't one of those smiles that had won him her heart. Not even close.

"What's the matter?" she wondered silently. However, when she tried to spread her lips into another smile, she thought she got her answer. The sudden pain in her lower lip reminded her of her broken nose, the burn marks on her arms, the rope marks on her wrists. As her bed was next to the window, she had seen her reflection earlier, so she knew there was also some bruising on her face. He saw all that, too. What he didn't see were her knees, which were completely skinned and her shins, which were covered in bruises. On the bright side, if there was one, being on some mild painkillers, she didn't feel the pain.

But, on the inside, she was aching and desperately seeking the way to at least ease that pain since she doubted it would ever really disappear. She was craving human touch. She needed to know she was allowed to go to pieces because there was somebody to help her pick them up.

He felt her urge. He sat beside her, brushing a few stray hairs from her face so gently that she could barely feel his fingertips against her skin. Then, gingerly so as not to disturb her IV, he embraced her. He just held her as she sobbed, one of his hands buried in her hair, the other one rubbing soothing circles across her back. His heart broke for her. And for their baby. For all three of them. Life was so unfair to them. Two and a half months – that much they, Jordan and him, had gotten. After all their losses and falls, didn't they deserve more? What he had heard in front of Dr. Summers's office was driving him insane. It was killing him and he couldn't talk about it with Jordan, at least not yet. It would probably have been easier had he been able to cry. He wanted to cry, hoping that tears would be able to bring him relief, however short-lived. But his eyes remained dry.

After a time, Jordan pulled away, sniffing a little and drying her slightly red eyes. He took her hands in his. As his eyes fell onto the abrasions a rope had left on her wrist, he frowned. The unthinkable, horrendous things one human being was able to do to another one never ceased to disgust him. He tenderly traced his finger along the wound and then brought her hand to his lips. While his small, light kisses were covering her wrist and her palm, she was accumulating courage, having decided that the moment was good as any. Finally, she addressed him softly, "I have to tell you something."

He guessed what it was and didn't want to hear it. The very same words that would have made him the happiest man alive had they been uttered an hour ago now frightened him because they were threatening to start the avalanche which could destroy them both. However, there was no point in trying to avoid the inevitable, so he looked up at her.

She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye, smiling.

"I'm pregnant," she announced.

Her smile died almost instantly. His face most certainly wasn't the one of a person who just got all he ever wanted for Christmas. His eyes were dark and his face impossible to read. Feeling the prickling of tears in her eyes, she pulled her hands from his. She hadn't expected that reaction. She had never even considered that possibility. She felt so stupid. She also felt as though somebody had just ripped her heart out.

"It's okay if you don't…," she started. "I can… I'll manage on my-"

"Jordan," he cut her off, tenderness audible in his voice. "Don't even say that. Don't you even dream about that," he told her, but couldn't bring himself to say anything else.

For a few moments, she waited for him to continue. When that didn't happen, she demanded, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing is wrong," he retorted unconvincingly.

"No, something is wrong," she insisted, getting more and more upset. "You… You aren't happy about it. Just tell me what the matter is."

He wasn't able to look at her. There hadn't been a moment in his life when he felt more miserable. To be having a child with Jordan and not to be over the moon about it… That was simply beyond his comprehension, but it was true.

It dawned on her.

"He's spooked you out, hasn't he?"

"Who?" He was confused although not completely clueless.

"Jack, Dr. Summers. He's talked to you, hasn't he?" She was getting worked up. "That's against the rules, dammit! He ought to have asked me for permission first!"

Her eyes were beginning to fill with tears again. He carefully cupped her face in an attempt to make her look at him.

"No, Jordan," he said slowly, "I overheard his phone conversation. You can't go through all that again," he told her, sorrow obvious in his tone, as well as in his eyes.

She sighed. She had known it was going to be like this. Taking his hands into hers, she forced herself to speak.

"Would you now just listen to me? No interruptions." When he only nodded shortly, she proceeded, her voice a bit shaky, "When I first found out, I was terrified. It's difficult for me to tell you this, to tell it to myself even, but I… Keeping her… or him… was the last thing on my mind," she admitted and felt him squeeze her hand reassuringly. "But now… You know, I've already named her." She smiled to him. "Macy, her name is Macy." She put his hand on her abdomen. "How could I ever… How could we ever-"

"Jordan," he interrupted, feeling the need to bring her to reason and feeling like some kind of a monster at the same time, "he said those things grew… I can't lose… You can't put yourself at risk like that," he pleaded.

"I know this hits a bit too close to home with you." She smiled weakly as she caressed his cheek. "But I will be fine, I promise," she put a finger to his lips to prevent him from talking. "To tell you the truth, I remembered that meningioma thing only yesterday. I had been so absorbed in my fears of becoming a parent and then in…," she shivered, "well, other things… The bottom line is, since there are no cases of fetal or maternal deaths due to meningioma and since I completely believe both Jack and Dr. Sanchez, I can promise you I'll be just fine and so will Macy," she concluded.

"Jordan…" he started softly, still not completely convinced.

Their eyes locked.

"That is what I want." Her voice was a whisper, but a decisive one. "We'll be fine, I promise," she repeated gently before resting her head in the crook of his neck.

He knew there was no point in arguing with her. She wouldn't give in. After all, she was a doctor. She wasn't the one to give promises she didn't intend to keep. And he wanted their child, a little girl with her dark eyes and soft curls. And, hopefully, not so stubborn as her mom.

"Macy, huh?" he more observed than asked, placing a kiss onto her hair.

* * *

Two days later, on Wednesday, Jordan was released from hospital. As she and Woody strolled to the parking lot, they talked about Howard Stiles. Funnily enough, Jordan herself had called the state psychiatrist on Monday afternoon.

"Yeah, he's pleased that I wanna talk." Jordan almost grinned. "He says this is actually the first time I'm being cooperative. Can you believe that?"

"Absolutely not." Woody grinned indeed. He was incredibly happy that Jordan had asked for professional help after her ordeal and immensely proud of her for having done so.

"Anyway, he says that the nightmares are gonna stick around for some time," a cloud crossed her face as she was uttering the words. "But," she tried to lighten things up again, "I've been thinking… Maybe I don't have to sleep." She cast him a significant look. "You know what they say about pregnant women… hormones and everything…"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, ma'am, I'm from Wisconsin." He flashed her a wicked smile. "But I'd be more than glad to hear what exactly you have in mind."

"Oh, lots of stuff," she started in a seductive voice. "For example, you going to buy ice-cream or egg rolls at three in the morning. Or you watching a sappy movies marathon with me. Or you reading me for hours because I have a bout of insomnia and feel too tired to read myself. Or you rubbing my swollen feet at least five times a day." She made a pause, smiling her crooked little smile.

"Ooh, those things…" He pulled her towards him. "Hate to break it to you, ma'am, but I'll be glad to do any of those things." They reached his car now. "But would you care to hear some of my ideas?"

Instead of unlocking the door, he wrapped both his arms around her, his chest to her back, and whispered something in her ear.

"Are there more from where these came from?" she asked, grinning again.

"Why, of course," he replied. "Though I have to warn you, ma'am. I'm very old-fashioned," he continued, his voice a little more than a whisper. "Nothing before marriage."

She laughed, covering his hands with hers and placing them on her belly. Nevertheless, she turned around a little.

"Good to know," she said. "'Cause I'm old-fashioned, too," she gave him a small, pretty chaste kiss, a promise of all those to come till death do them part.


End file.
